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get"? Alinor did not "forget" Simon. She did not think of him all the time; for that matter, she did not think of Ian all the time. But Simon was always there, just as Ian was always there. Never by any stretch of the truth could she say she had "almost forgotten" either of them. It was insane to be jealous of a woman, of a love, that could be "almost forgotten." Yet, no matter what she thought or what arguments she offered herself, the hurt remained. That he could go that way, without a single tender kiss or look, to bid another woman farewell was unbearable. |
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Alinor's spleen spilled out over her maids, who were well-slapped for nothing, and over her castellans, who raised their eyes to heaven and thanked God that they were not tied to her closer and that the ride to the tourney field was short. It would have spilled out over Lady Ela also, but she was too clever to give her fulminating neighbor a chance, and a strong, basic sense of self-preservationeven stronger than ragemade Alinor clamp her teeth into her lips and shake her head at any comment the king addressed to her. Let him think her afraid, if that would give him satisfaction. If Ian came alive from this venture, she would have the last laugh over this running sore of a kingand over Ian, too. |
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The trumpets drew her eyes from her own knotted fingers to the field. If Ian came alive from thisifif. Cold fear fought with the roiling rage. Alinor sat still as a graven image, staring with blind eyes at the herald, who recited the old, formal phrases: |
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" . . . in God's name, do your battle!" |
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The trumpets blew; the ranks of men moved toward each other, the brilliant shields and surcoats giving something of the appearance of two beds of flowers that had suddenly become mobile. Down the lines occasional good-humored challenges were called between members of the opposing parties. Even in the |
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